My routine has been broken. I’ve sunk deep into the couch, into television, into chalk pastel and day-long cooking projects. I haven’t stopped moving so you might think I’ve been productive but the truth is I have been only as productive as a hamster on a wheel. Going to task on projects that don’t matter is an old habit of mine.
“Don’t bother being mad at yourself,” a confidante says to me, “it was the holidays , you’re allowed to take a break. You’ll get back on it.”
I am not mad at myself. It’s not like I forgot to stay focused. I told myself it’s okay to relax on the holidays and I chose to believe it because I wanted to relax. I craved entertainment. I craved lighthearted socialization like a high school senior craves a Juul. I took the hit. Spent each day getting high on frivolity. Now, two weeks later, I pay the price.
Fear. I am not mad at myself for doing what I wanted. I am afraid of starting up again. Afraid that it will take days—but probably weeks—of failure and frustration to finally get back into a steady, productive workflow. Daily routine. Obligated focus. Effortless discipline. Making time to stretch. Making sure I write at least 1000 words a day.
My fear of starting up again is the product of denial. Denial, by definition, could not exist without unwanted truth. I don’t want it to be true, what I know and knew all along: I am setting myself back.
I have set myself back.
I will always be the person who sets myself back.
I am not mad at myself
because I have made peace with myself and the with the reason I make the decisions I make:
I always underestimate the poignancy of self-loathing.